Oh HELL No
by WhosJeebus
Summary: Dean makes a terrible lounge lizard. And an even worse amateur psychologist.


Title: Oh HELL No

**Author: **WhosJeebus

**Fandom**: Supernatural

**Disclaimer**: The pretty pretty boys and their pretty pretty car do not belong to me. What a damned shame.

**Pairing**: None? I mean, we all know that Sam and Dean love each other, right? RIGHT?

**Rating: **PG-13 (Those Winchester boys have _such_ potty mouths, God love 'em...)

**Genre: **Gen? Kinda slashy? shrugs It's what you want to make of it, I suppose, but there are NONE porny bits. So solly.

**Spoilers and/or Warnings**: Mentions of events from episode 10, 'Asylum'

**Summary: **Dean makes a terrible lounge lizard. And an even worse amateur psychologist.

**A/N: **This was written for the 'Lounge Lizards' prompt over at the LiveJournal community, _60minutefics_. I was late getting home last Friday night, so I suppose it's more of a 36 minute fic, actually...

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**Oh HELL No**

Dean wadded up a cocktail napkin and threw it at the hapless piano player.

"Play some 'Freebird', asshole!"

Sam ducked his head to hide a smile. Dean was four sheets to the wind, and Sam's own sobriety had packed its bags and walked out in disgust over an hour ago. He knew he should be chiding his brother for such rude behavior, but it did his heart good to see Dean so relaxed for the first time in days.

They still weren't discussing the, '_You shot me. I can't believe you fucking SHOT me!_' incident from the haunted asylum, and Sam knew he'd narrowly escaped the noose once again. If Dean didn't bring it up when he was shit-faced, then the subject was likely never coming up again. Which was fine with Sam. He knew all of Dean's strategies, and unlike their father, who was as confrontational as they come, Dean was in synch with Sam well enough to know that a guilty conscience was often the worst form of punishment.

Or, maybe he'd been dragged downstairs to this shitty excuse for a hotel lounge as some kind of sick payback. Dean could be a sadistic son of a bitch when he put his mind to it, and he never would have chosen a cheesy dive like 'The Hangar' to down a few drinks in if he didn't have an ulterior motive. Plus, he was drinking _scotch_, of all the nasty, out of character concoctions, and that alone told Sam that something was definitely screwy.

"Another Glenfiddych?" The bartender leaned over and smiled at Dean, showing off her ample cleavage to devastating effect. At least, it certainly affected Sam. Dean didn't even dip his eyes below her face.

"Sure thing, barkeep. If it's not Scottish, it's crap!" He doubled over and guffawed at his own lame joke. She smiled again, more polite than seductive this time, and slid the tumbler across the bar toward Sam. "He's not driving tonight, is he?"

Sam, who had apparently been weighed and assessed as the _less_ brain-damaged of the pair, shook his head and tried his best to keep his eyes from crossing. "No, ma'am. We're staying here at the hotel." He smiled in what he hoped was a reassuring manner, grabbed another quick eyeful of D-cup, and handed Dean his drink.

"What is _with_ you tonight, Dean? You haven't been this wasted in forever."

Dean sipped his scotch and regarded Sam somberly from over the rim of his glass. "I always wanted a dog, Sammy."

Okay... This was something new.

Inebriated, Dean was the grand high poohbah of non sequiturs, but Sam would have had a hard time keeping up even if he _hadn't_ already been hammered on cheap beer.

"All those nights left alone in motel rooms, watching re-runs of 'Lassie', and 'Benji' movies..." Dean's eyes took on a faraway cast. "Oh, man! Do you remember that one with Chevy Chase? 'Oh Heavenly Dog.' God _damn_ I love that movie. Jane Seymour was hotter than dammit..."

Sam opened his mouth to try and lead Dean back to the subject at hand, but then belatedly realized he had no idea what that might be.

"Hell, I would have even settled for a big, slobbery mutt like the one in 'Turner and Hooch', but nooooo..." He dragged the word out, savoring the single, sarcastic syllable as he pierced Sam with an accusing glare. "Do you know _why_ Dad never got us a dog, Sammy?"

"It's Sam, jerkwad." Sam picked idly at the label on his beer bottle as he gave the question as much serious consideration as he could muster. "Because we were always on the road, never stayed in one place for more than a few days at a time, and Dad would have taken _any_ dog out and shot it the moment it barfed in the Impala? I mean, he was _this_ close to putting a bullet in you that time you got carsick on the Blue Ridge Parkway..."

Dean held up one hand and Sam gazed at it drunkenly, shifting sideways on his barstool. The room wasn't exactly spinning yet, but it was definitely listing to port.

"No, Sam. It's because _you_ were terrified of dogs. You stole my childhood happiness, and because I was never able to bond with a pet, it rendered me incapable of having meaningful adult relationships later in life. All _this_," Dean waved his arms around wildly, and Sam wasn't quite sure if he was indicating the bar, or the world at large. "Is _your_ fault, you inconsiderate shithead. If anything, _I_ should be the one taking pot shots at you."

Sam's head snapped up. "Wait. What?" So _this_ was how it was going to come up. Fucking Dean Winchester and his bullshit logic. Sam didn't have to be psychic to know that Dean's five hours of supposed _'research'_ earlier in the day had been spent in the self-help and psychology section of the local library. So typical of his obstinate big brother to look for the easy fix.

"Oh no. You're not pinning this on me. Why don't you just come out and tell me what this is _really_ about, you big fucking chicken?"

Dean carefully set his glass tumbler down on the bar and shoved the basket of pretzels well out of reach. He made a grand show of straightening his shoulders and breathing deep as Sam braced himself for the inevitable.

Mannie, or Vinnie, or whatever the hell the Bacharach and Manilow loving piano player's name was, chose that exact moment to launch into an overly contrived, excessively _tinkly_ version of 'Hotel California'.

Instantly, Dean's rage had a new focus.

"Oh HELL no..."

He attempted to stand, but his knees weren't having any of it. Sam lurched up from his seat and caught Dean under the arms, bracing his hip against the bar.

"This is fucking sacrilege, Sammy. Go out to the car and get me my shotgun and a crucifix. This bastard has to _pay_."

Sam sighed -- a long, exaggerated, and very put-upon sound. "How about we get you to bed instead, and we'll hunt his evil ass down in the morning?"

"Oh. Okay." Dean sounded petulant, but Sam knew the offense would be forgotten long before Reggie or Willy or Stan even made it to the second verse.

Stooping, Sam heaved Dean's arm over his shoulder and dragged him off toward the row of elevators. "Hey, Sammy... did I ever tell you I wanted to be a fireman when I grew up?"

Sam smiled to himself. This was _definitely_ more along the lines of helpful psychotherapy. At least for the Winchester brothers, anyway. "No Dean, you never mentioned it. Did you know I always wanted to be an astronaut instead of a lawyer?"

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FIN


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